


Running Up that Hill

by Wrennydennydoo



Series: And Other Fun Stories [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Death Fix, Charlie Bradbury & Dean Winchester Friendship, Charlie Bradbury Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Charlie is alive and remains alive, Episode: s10e22 The Prisoner, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Fix-It, M/M, Married Castiel/Dean Winchester, Non-Binary Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester is So Done, This fic takes place before Dean has the Mark of Cain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-01-24 07:24:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18566671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrennydennydoo/pseuds/Wrennydennydoo
Summary: It’s barely dawn, and the grey light isn’t promising for the vacation time that Sam had enthusiastically planned out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel likes the sound of sunny.
> 
> Florida is not very sunny. Castiel decides to hate rain.

In this place, he is warm; the sky is the color of overexposed polaroids. Like the ones Dean insisted on taking with the camera he found in that old antique shop of their last hunt. Along their walls, of the both of them, of campfires and smores and them kissing and Sam making a funny face at them. And that is the color of the sky, and this is how Castiel knows something is wrong. No perfect recreations of his own memories can fool him. And staring at the increasingly makeshift sky, he feels his chest pulse. Reaching to his throat (where a thick scar rests), he feels he wound begin to leak at the edges, and his hand is covered in his own grace. 

Filled with horror, Castiel wakes up. Eyes blurry, he thrashes and rolls of the bed in a panic-- but the sheets have another person tangled in them, and his panic takes them off the side too. Dean, alarmed and now very awake, blearily stretches out on the floor. A distressed Cas is pressed into their chest. 

“Why are we on the floor?” Dean groans, craning their neck to stare at their husband’s head. Cas only whimpers. Realizing that no progress is being made using words, Dean untangles a hand from the sheets, combs it through Cas’s hair, and contemplates life. This is the first time in a few weeks that either of them have had a nightmare, after Charlie had informed them over breakfast after a particularly devastating hunt that playing the “most traumatized” card on each other after every argument was a bit of a dick move, and that “Y’know, you’d think that the problems caused by you arguing would motivate you to solve them, or something.” 

Castiel took that to heart, and ordered some relationship help books off of Amazon. Sam was into it, and now after each hunt the pair had decided all three of them should sit down and talk about how their jobs were affecting them emotionally. Something about communication fostering better coping mechanisms and more trust in the people around you.

Not that Dean was excited at first, but they’re certainly sleeping better. 

On their chest, Castiel lets out a sleepy grumble and settles in on top of his new pillow. Dean resigns themselves to spending the next couple hours on the floor rather than wake the grumpy, tired angel on top of them. 

The next morning finds Castiel awake, earlier than usual and a little worse for wear. He’s drinking tea in a comfortable armchair tucked away in the library, wishing for a few windows and some sunshine but knowing that it’s raining outside. The rain had followed them from down the road, bringing in humidity and the slow drip of water down some of the more run-down areas in the bunker. Here, slow and steady, Castiel thinks about losing his Grace. He’s done it before, remembers the pull of the most painful physical sensation he’s ever experienced. He wonders if the ache missing in his chest is from the memory at his throat, or something else entirely. Right now, Castiel is full of grace. A traitorous thought is on the tip of his tongue, a heavy sentence, but it is not to be said right now. It is dawn, and there is work to do.

Dean, making post-hunt pancakes in the kitchen, doesn’t ask about Cas’s nightmare. They know that Cas will talk about it eventually. Even if Dean wanted to ask him about it, their previous relationships didn’t foster healthy discussions about trauma and this kind of thing is so far out of their comfort zone. They hover instead, like Castiel knows they do.

Their worry does have validity, though Castiel would prefer it a little more subtle.  Unusual for angels to have bad dreams, even more unusual for Castiel to look tired. Though boxed around the edges, he knows that his usual appearance is brighter and less lined, less bloodshot than this one is. He knows Dean is wondering if he didn’t fall back asleep earlier, and knows that they are more concerned than annoyed.

“Good morning,” they say, and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Something warm fills him as he wraps his arms around Dean flipping pancakes, and he puts the exhaustion off for later.

“Sam dig up another case for us?” Castiel asks, tired, as Charlie shouts in the background, “No PDA in the Bunker!” 

Dean yells right back. “No pancakes for people who can’t respect their elders!” Then fiddles with the stove. “Yep. We set out tomorrow for sunny Florida. Shapeshifters, I think.” 

Castiel likes the sound of sunny. 

* * *

Florida is not very sunny.

In the week it takes to close the case, Castiel decides that he hates rain and he hates Florida. Eyeing the aftermath of their battle with distaste, Castiel presses himself close into Dean’s side under the umbrella while Sam explains what happened to the local police. This time, the story is that they’re just tourists that got caught by a group of cannibals. Ironically, the cannibals bit sounds more like a lie, but this time that’s the true part.

“Ugh, I hate people,” Dean grunts later, as they rinse (human) blood off of their favorite jacket. Castiel is inclined to agree this time.

“Though humans are a marvel of creation, the atrocities they commit do pain me,” Castiel says drily from his place on the bed. He’s poking through Sam’s laptop now, discovering the wonders of local news. Dean idly glances his way. The wonder Cas holds in his eyes as he pereuses the internet, combined with the hints he’s been dropping lately, are weakening Sam’s resolve to get a newer model with a faster processor. At this rate, Dean might even be convinced to buy a laptop, but right now Cas is looking at--vacation spots?

Disregarding the stained jacket, Dean moves over and tucks their head over Cas’s head to observe. There’s a travel tumblr open with some very scenic photos of an old military fort, and the cheery title “Tour St. Augustine!” in big yellow letters in a different tab. As Castiel scrolls, something else catches their eye. Dean steals the mousepad from Cas’s hands and hovers the cursor over it. A haunted trolley tour.

“We going on vacation?” Dean asks. Cas is the planner, and they’re in Florida anyways-- it wouldn’t be any skin off of Dean’s nose to indulge, if Sam (sleeping in the next room over) doesn’t object. Castiel shrugs. “I hate Florida.”

“But the beach looks appealing,” Dean guesses, and nods as much as they can with their chin pressing into Cas’s head. “Florida beaches are nice. We’ll ask Sam in the morning.”

They end up in a bed and breakfast in Saint Augustine, to exactly no one's surprise. 

“We’re due for a vacation,” Dean declares, trying to convince themselves this is a good idea and stretching as Sam gets them rooms. Castiel is quiet most of the time, waiting for some other permission from the people around him before he speaks. Castiel’s speaking habits and hesitation are achingly familiar to Dean, bourn of carrying the weight of silence. Dean isn’t above filling the space with words even though Cas only responds if he has something to say, and they count it as a victory every time Castiel makes a joke. They both spend a lot of time in a silent zone, basking in each other’s presence instead of verbally communicating.

Sam, coming back out of a clean trimmed building with a broad porch, looks up at the sky for a second. Sunny weather, just over 70 degrees. “If you two want to head to the beach, it’s only a five minute drive from here. I’m gonna head to the fort.”

Dean shrugs. “Sounds fine to me. Are we good with the rooms?”

“Yeah, we’re all set to settle in; the owners are still tidying up, though. We got the two rooms.” Sam stares pointedly between Dean and Cas. Dean clears their throat uncomfortably. Neither of them have said that they’re married yet, but Sam definitely knows. Because of course Sam knows they’re hiding something from them. Sam always knows.

“Beach?” Dean asks Cas, and a gentle smile appears on his face in agreement. The rain that chased them all the way through Ohio and through Kansas has abandoned them, leaving a spitting breeze that kicks up a little foam off the water. Dean can already hear the waves, and urges the Impala a little faster in anticipation. Already a short drive, they can make it even shorter.

As they get out of the car, Castiel pauses for a second to absorb the color of the sky. “Do you have the polaroid camera?”

Dean frowns. “Oh. Nah, I left it at the Bunker. Didn’t think we’d want it.”

Cas shrugs at that and closes the passenger door with a thud. They don’t have any swimsuits, but Dean is fine pulling out a bag of chips and a bottled water for them to share out of the trunk. Not having swimsuits is no hardship, after all; Cas rolls up his jeans and wades through the shallows for a bit while Dean sits and watches. They go walking down the shoreline, and Cas finds a large pink conch shell with all its points intact. He carefully rolls it up into his overcoat to prevent any damage, later to be loaded into the trunk of the impala.

Castiel’s palm is warm inside Dean’s. Twin feet bury themselves in wet sand as they walk along the coast towards the boardwalk, parallel to a sunset that rivals no other. This one isn’t watered-down, but contains all the pink and grey and orange tinges that Dean has ever imagined. Castiel has seen a million sunsets like this one, but this one makes Dean realize that this is the first sunset they’ve watched, together.

Pausing, Cas points up at a single faint star in the budding sky. “That’s Venus,” He says softly. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, staring into Castiel’s enraptured face before following his finger to look at the pulsing star. “She is.” 

 

* * *

Along an old brick road, a lone jogger pants and breathes in moisture. She can hear the low rumble of a storm, turned tinny by a pair of earbuds. She should head home before the rain hits. She’s gotten caught in storms like these before. Brutal and short, they attack the summer soil and soak to the skin. 

When she turns the corner, a tinfoil rumble reverberates in her eardrums. Just as quickly, it’s over. 

No one was there to watch her vanish.

* * *

  
The same night brings the beginnings of a common drizzle and a sticky, sweaty dawn with more thunderheads on the horizon. Beneath the sheets, Dean thrashes like they’re drowning before struggling to the surface. They’re used to this feeling, one that Sam calls “future vision” and Cas calls “precognition” and Dean calls annoying, but they’ve learned not to ignore it. It’s barely dawn, and the grey light isn’t promising for the vacation time that Cas and Sam had enthusiastically planned out. 

Groping for their phone, Dean creeps out of bed to the adjoined bathroom, careful not to let the unfamiliar floor echo footsteps and wake up Cas, still asleep. The bathroom, lit by a streetlamp, seems to bright; even brighter with the addition of Dean’s phone screen. They hazily click through their contacts before pressing dial, and after a few rings a familiar voice picks up.

“I thought you were on vacation,” says Charlie accusingly.

“Oh, I am,” Dean replies, taking a second to lean against the counter. “Sam has it all planned out, the whole ten miles. I’m already stressed out.”

Charlie laughs, sweet and bitter that she didn’t come along.

“This isn’t a call for pleasure, is it,” She asks, and Dean clears their throat.

“Think before you speak, kiddo,” They say automatically. And she makes a gagging noise. “But yeah. I think a case has come up. Can you search missing persons reports near here?”

They know that Charlie is already tapping away at her keyboard, but Dean still gets a little defensive as she replies. “You’ve only been there for a day, you know. You and Cas are allowed to get some rest. Enjoy your honeymoon.”

“And Sam,” Dean replies as their throat goes a little dry.

“ _ Think before you speak, kiddo, _ ” She mimics, and it’s Dean’s turn to choke. Quieter, almost plaintively, she asks, “Why didn’t you invite me to the wedding?”

As their eyes study the ceiling, Dean thinks about how to answer that. “Charlie… Cas and I, we’re not… We didn’t get  _ human _ married. There was no formal ceremony. And honestly? It was kinda an accident.”

Charlie rolls her eyes on the other end. “Of course it was. You two are messes.”

Dean smiles and blushes, thinking of sleepy Cas on the other side of the doorway. “I know,” they say, and it sounds a little goofier than they intend.

Charlie has demands, of course. “I will look into cases for you in St. Augustine, but as your best friend and little sister, I’m here to tell you that you need a real ceremony and that I’m going to be your best woman.”

“Right,” They mutter, but now they’re getting distracted. “Anyways, keep me updated. And don’t burn the bunker down while we’re gone.”

“Yeah, yeah,” She sighs, as if she had grand plans for arson and the old moldy atom bomb shelter-equivalent they’re currently housed in. Not that Dean minds, they think as they hang up and sag against the wall.

The faucets in this bathroom are golden and new-penny bright, even in the dim mist outside the window. Normally they’d enjoy this old aristocratic luxury, with painted pastel door frames and floral-scented rooms. Last night Castiel was basking in the rented bed sheets, free from bugs. But last night Dean dreamed of a storm, and outside the thunderheads begin to roll in from the east.

There’s no such thing as vacation, they think gloomily before heading back to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is so, so in love, and he and Castiel work through some problems.

The nightmares aren’t exactly new. They can remember them like the way Sam described seeing Jessica on his ceiling days before it happened, before she died, and before it turned out he was high on demon blood being force-fed to him so he could host Lucifer. Dean doesn’t know why his own precognition is any different, exactly, but that Cas thinks the dreams are normal. _Normal for who?_ Dean asks him, but Castiel does the thing where he closes his eyes and pretends to be meditating.

Dean knows Cas hears them. It’s like seeing a kid peeking out from behind a couch while playing hide and seek. Castiel hears them and Dean knows and Castiel knows that Dean knows and Dean knows that Castiel knows that they know and so on. But Cas is allowed to keep his silence if he wants. It’s not like _Dean’s worried, or anything._

Castiel doesn’t reply to that either, but does stop pretending to sleep to press a kiss to Dean’s eyelids. “Go to sleep,” He mutters, before rolling back over.

“I thought you wanted to work on communication,” Dean whispers back pettily. Then they cozy up to Cas’s side and tuck their face into his neck. If he’s gonna be elusive, they’re gonna breathe on his neck all night.

A lot of it Dean doesn’t remember. It's terrifying because that means that there could be more to this, some hidden detail they're forgetting because their mind can't hold that much pain. Each one hurts. It comes in gasps like coming up for water, something that will happen, or something that could happen _maybe._ If the stars end up in retrograde during a solar eclipse and Taurus burns red, or they make a bad choice, Dean will end up in the moment playing out behind their eyes. Staring into the closed face of this stranger, Dean can see Charlie’s body with its strings cut in the bathtub, and they can see the face of the brother who killed her. “You have to die,” They say, and pull the trigger.

And then Dean sees something different. This one is weird, because it flashes back and forth before settling on a course of events. The noise rips into space, a beating and a whisper they haven’t heard in a long time. Wings. A pair of wings that he knows as well as the impala’s engine when it runs low on oil. The blankness of hearing them comes with the start of tan and blue and white of Castiel’s shirt. It begins to streak red. Castiel staggers.

“No,” Castiel says, and lunges for the kid as Dean sees blood.

“They all have to die,” Dean shouts, but Castiel is quicker, shoving the kid out of the way and replacing his space with himself. It speaks to his grace and his will that he remains on his feet, and his hands press upwards and into Dean’s shoulders when they come crashing together. In the smear of light and color, a mark stands in clear relief on their right forearm, but falling into Cas blurs out the scar. “They killed Charlie.” The words arrive to no bell toll, no burbled water except the fact that their sister is dead.

How easy it is to shatter someone’s trust, Dean thinks bleakly against Cas’s shoulder. They’re a live wire. They can feel Castiel’s grace in their chest, and in Castiel’s throat, beating empty next to where Dean’s own heart should be. The kid-- God, a _kid_ \-- presses up against the floor as Dean falls. They’ve been falling for a while. Castiel catches him. “I got you,” he murmurs. “We got you.”

Dean closes their eyes and lets the world go on without them. When the kid stutters out a thanks to Castiel it is a murmur, when Sam arrives it is a rustling of paper and a slamming of doors, and when Castiel peels himself away from Dean it takes his triple-slow heartbeat away.

Dean keeps his eyes closed. Just crumbles to the floor and the room pulses.  

“Is he… what happened, Cas?” Sam asks, as if Dean isn’t there. But they haven’t been for a long time. It chills them to think of Claire’s fearful face being pulled backwards, Sam flinching everytime Dean comes too close. Maybe they _have_ been out of line. When they were searching for Claire’s mother Castiel left no room to sit next to him, and that thought is worse than the rest. Because Cas was scared of them.

“I’ll tell you later, Sam. Get the kid somewhere safe.” Castiel books no room for argument, grabbing both Sam and the kid they almost killed by their elbows and leading them towards the door. The room pulses. He adds, “I’ll call you.”

“Cas, we can’t just leave you two-- are you bleeding?”

“Go, Sam,” Cas growls.

The door slams closed and the blood behind Dean’s eyes pulses. Then the bunker is empty too.

“Dean _,_ ” He says, more urgent the second time. “ _Dean._ ”

_Dean? Dean, wake up._

_Dean_? Castiel murmurs, without moving his lips. Dean grunts. Cas presses a soft kiss to the corner of their mouth, then squishes his own face up at morning breath. Through their blurry, blinky gross morning vision Dean watches Cas’s unblinking eyes fixate on his face. “You were having a nightmare. I thought it better to wake you up,” he murmurs, all low and gravelly. “You alright?”

Dean nods, which may be a bit of a mistake. The ceiling is less blue than it was at night. Squinting against the sounds from the window, they remember the pulsing waves of layered headache from their dream, now swept away by Cas’s gentle kisses pressed against the corner of their mouth. Something about Charlie… God, Charlie. The feeling of blood down the front of Dean’s chest makes them gag, the rotten smell heavy in their throat as they push past Castiel and bolt to the bathroom.

Cas waits until the gagging recedes before following them in. “No fever.” He brushes a cool hand through their hair and it makes Dean’s skin shiver.

“It was intense again,” They mumble, against the cold white toilet seat, and retreat as far away from Cas’s healing hand as they can without moving. “I’m gonna shower. I’ll be down in a while.”

“I’m going to make tea for you,” He says quietly, leaving the bathroom door cracked. Dean can hear the bedroom door shut and click locked behind him, adding an extra layer of security before they gag into the toilet again. _It’s going to be a long day_.

When Castiel comes back upstairs, mug in hand, Dean is wrapped in a blanket burrito as if nothing is wrong. But the static turmoil that emanates from their form isn’t calm the way Dean is outwardly,  so he sets the mug down next to the bed and pulls them into an embrace. They’re all soreness and stiff, unfortunate tension that Castiel can feel bleeding off of them. The budding bruises underneath their eyes shows a deeper problem that begins to circle into misery. One that they should probably talk about.

Guiltily, his mind flashes back to Dean’s concern about normalcy in relation to the dreams, brushed off by Castiel’s grumpiness the night before.

“May I?” He is allowed access to Dean’s face, which uncurls from the quilt and tips into Castiel’s hands. Fleeting memories scan radio frequencies through their skulls, and he’s caught by smooth tree trunks as he falls into something wholly unexpected and neglected. 

Everything is dull. Benny is silent in front, cutting back the thicker brush and letting the rustle of feet speak for himself. Castiel, a past Castiel, follows. Off to the left, the strangest bird he’s ever heard croaks from above, and the party freezes; Castiel holds their--Dean’s-- machete at the ready, but after a minute of stillness his past self relaxes and pushes past them to continue at the vines.

As they walk, there is nothing between their feet except decaying leaf mould, sticking like mud to the bottom of their boots. This forest was like nowhere Cas/Dean’s ever been, and Dean knows forests. Oregon’s landscape was his favorite, all crackling and blurry movement and cold. Massachusetts had swamp, and the National Radio Quiet Zone had mountains and its burnt umber pines. But this one towers above the realm of what they can see staring straight up, until the only hint a sky is above is the grey that pervades the forest floor at what Dean thinks is night time. They never thought they’d miss the stars.

When Castiel/Dean stumbles over flat ground for the third time, Benny says, “I’m tired. Let’s take a break.”

Castiel/Dean all but collapses. Their eyes shut briefly and their head tilts back against a tree. Tiredness is a weakness, and they can’t afford to admit it here so Castiel/Dean raises themself from their fatigue and volunteers for first watch.

“It’s fine, partner. I got y’all. Take it easy,” Benny pats them on the shoulder, the fact that he doesn’t need to sleep remaining unspoken. He points at past-Castiel too. “You too, feathers.”

“Dean?” past-Castiel asks. He sits cross-legged next to the tree, back up against it. Castiel/Dean’s hands shake as they lower themself back down against the bark.

“I need a distraction, Cas,” They say. Past Cas takes that as some form of invitation, because it’s the only explanation for how Castiel/Dean goes from leaning up against the tree to having their head in Cas’s lap. His hands feel good against their skin. All it takes is the slightest of touches before they can feel the tension melting away from their scalp and into a sleepy stupor.

“When I was younger,” Castiel begins, measured and soothing. “There were fables told about an angel who fell into the ocean. She was beautiful, and her voice could tame Michael’s and Lucifer’s rage with a few words. If an angel could be clever outside of our Father’s wishes, it was she; if angels have free will, then she was the first to use it.”

As himself in Dean’s memories, Castiel thinks _free will is just a form of failing_ , and a fleeting panic at the smooth trunks renders his grace, still smouldering, extinguished in his chest. But past-Castiel keeps speaking, oblivious to his future self.

“And then you humans grew from mud, handcrafted and imperfect. And this angel fell in love. Michael tells it that she was enchanted, coerced, and that her voice and grace was stolen by Lucifer in exchange for a chance to be human. Lucifer, cruelly, claimed her golden tongue for his own and tossed her into the ocean, where he expected his sister to die a mortal death. But be it by the divine providence of our Father, or her own extraordinary luck, she survived. When she landed in the waves, a fishing boat found her and took her to the land of her love.

“Her happiness was short-lived. When she arrived, she found her love engaged-to-be-married to another, and herself unable to speak her own story. Michael, discovering the wickedness of his own brother against their sister, delivered her a blade to kill the human she had fallen for, to take her revenge and then wait as Michael tricked Lucifer into giving her Grace and her voice back.”

Past Castiel pauses, looking at the thin slivers of Castiel/Dean’s eyes. From this angle, he’s stunning, dirt and the scraggly beard creating a harsh otherworldly being. From Dean’s perspective, himself without strength is tender and sharp, more powerful than Castiel ever saw himself. The double vision of looking down at Dean from the same angle shares the same perspective in reverse. Dean is tender and sharp, and their love is mutual.

“But this story ends in tragedy. Standing over the human she loved, who rested in the marriage bed of another, she lowered the blade. When Michael returned for her with her Grace and her voice, he couldn’t find her. All of heaven was roused to search, but on the third day they discovered the knife rusted with blood where she was taken ashore by the fishing vessel.”

“What was her name?” Dean murmurs, barely awake. By the time Castiel replies, they’re 

asleep.

“Her name was Ariel.”

From the other side of camp, Benny says to himself, “The Lion of God.”

 

* * *

  
Sitting cross-legged on top of the quilt in a different time, Dean leans their forehead against Cas’s shoulder. “I don’t want to talk about the dreams,” They say, as if it’s a secret.

Castiel whispers back in the dark. “Remember the story I told you in purgatory?”

“The ocean one?”

He presses a kiss to their cheekbone. “Want to hear the rest?”

“There was more?”

“There’s always more to the story, Dean.” Another kiss to their nose. “Michael tells the story as if Lucifer betrayed their--my-- sister before God locked him away. But there are other versions.”

Dean returns the kiss and presses it further, by Cas’s ear. “Tell me,” They request, right before sticking their tongue into his ear.

“One of them-- Dean! Cut it out!” Castiel tries and fails to keep his voice down. It cracks as he says ‘cut it out’, and Dean steals a giggle from him before Cas wraps their hands together to keep them from being mischievous. “Rude.”

Dean apologizes between laughs, and Cas glares at them before beginning the story again. “Some angels say that she drowned before ever being rescued by the fishing boat. Others say that Michael’s knife was a gift to her after Lucifer fell, and she removed her own Grace from her throat with it so she might join him, rather than choose a side and fight her brothers.

“But my favorite,” He whispered. “When she was sent to guard our Father’s creations during Lucifer’s fall, she lived among them. And when she was called upon to return to Heaven, she begged our Father to let her remain. And she struck a deal: she would trade her voice for the ability to live as a mortal. Now, this meant losing her grace, but in payment for allowing her to leave Heaven, it also took her ability to walk. With every step she took, her legs would be crippled by needles, or briars, or tensed so much she was unable to flex her muscles.”

Dean sits back a little, looking into Castiel’s face. “That’s awful.”

He nods. “I know, Dean. But her pain ends there. Gabriel isn’t mentioned in the other stories. But in this one, Gabriel is the one to give her the gift. Given over to her possession should she need her brother, Gabriel blessed her with his horn. She used music to speak and gathered loyalty from humans, becoming well-loved and well-known. Dirty and beaten down, she traveled across this fragile planet and spread trust. In the Hebrew Bible, her name is synonymous with Jerusalem, her last home.”

Dean smiles slightly. “I know why this is your favorite story.” And then kisses the corner of his mouth. “She fell in love with living. She drank salt water when she nearly drowned and she traveled and fell in love with the dirt and weeds of this planet. I think you have, too.”

Castiel nods, and pulls his lover closer. They’re sitting in each other’s laps now, as if they’ll become one person by occupying the same space. “I’m sorry for disregarding you last night. I love you, and I will listen.”

Something tender rests in Castiel’s expression, and Dean knows that it rests in their own face, too.


End file.
